Reluctant
by Tafferling
Summary: Owen was nothing to write home to mom over. Never mind that there isn't such a thing as letters to mom any more. The Quarantine doesn't have postal service. But when Owen attacks another survivor, who turns out to be Kyle Crane, the hero of the Quarantine, you're left with a simple choice: You or him. FINISHED
1. Chapter 1

**Bloody Murder.**

* * *

 **"O** wen— Ohw— O-wen!" You hissed his name through gritted teeth as you hurried after him.

He ignored you, but Owen was a stubborn man, who never listened to anyone but himself. Truth be told, it was a bit of a mystery why you even ran with the man. He didn't respect you a lick, was rowdy at the best of times, and didn't even _try_ to pretend he wasn't undressing you with his eyes while you weren't looking. All in all, Owen was nothing to write home to mom over. Never mind that there was no such things as letters to mom any more. The quarantine didn't have postal service.

"Stop!" You wheezed.

Still, you had to try. He was about to do something stupid even for Owen's standards. The sort of stupid that could get him from alive, with a decent pulse, to dead and leaking his humanity all over the pavement. Owen kept loping up the street, deaf to your opinion. He stayed close to the wall on the right, and from how his shoulders were bunched forward and his chin thrust up, you figured he wasn't paying attention to anything but the corner that came up ahead.

You locked your jaw in frustration and cast a look around; Tall, white walls formed a narrow corridor around you. They were old walls, blocks of solid stone painted a brilliant white. Or they'd been white. Once. Before the Outbreak. Now they were filthy. Rain had washed soot and grime from the roofs, and an untold crime had left stains of blood and gore splattered at eye level just ahead of you. At least the alley was free of Biters, you thought. It would be a terrible place to be cornered in. You looked up. No easy way to scale those walls, even with the decorating outcroppings and the windowsills. You threw a yearning glance at the ribbon of brilliant blue sky above you, and then cursed Owen and his ridiculous plan.

He slowed, and so did you, then crept down a flight of stairs and into an open archway leading you both into a tunnel. The air cooled considerably down here, but the stench of stale piss and rotting meat was getting worse. At the mouth of the tunnel he finally stopped. Your hand darted out and you steadied yourself against the wall on your right while Owen peered around the corner. You exhaled a frustrated sigh. Your stomach lined itself with jittery ants as you waited, and when you leaned forward to take a look around his shoulder, the ants broke into a frenzy.

Over there, across the road that opened up outside the tunnel, you saw the man that Owen had been chasing after. He stood by the closed shutters of a pharmacy, a crowbar in one hand, while rubbing at the back of his head with the other.

"That's another human being!" You whispered harshly at Owen. "We can't just go around killing people. That's not right, it isn't."

"Do you want suppressants or not?" Owen shot back.

Of course you wanted Antizin. Rather, you _needed_ it. But this? Where was the difference between tearing up people's throats as a Biter to bashing their skulls in as a human? You let the thought fester. There was a big difference. One was life. One was death. Yours.

Owen grabbed your elbow. He pulled, harshly, and dragged you into the street, until he yanked you down behind a red station wagon stranded in the middle of it. The man hadn't noticed you yet, but he'd turned away from the shutters and was pacing up towards two Biters that had come shambling along the street. The crowbar rotated in his right hand, cutting through the air. _SWOOSH._ _SWOOSH._

He looked decidedly confident as he walked up to the Biters, shoulders squared and feet stepping lightly across the cluttered pavement. He knew what he was doing, didn't he? He was taller than Owen, too. By half a head at least, you figured from where you watched him through the grimy windows of the car. That made him quite the giant compared to you, and as you watched him knock the crowbar into the chin of the first Biter with enough force to knock the thing literally fly a meter or two, you were quite sure he'd snap you in half without breaking a sweat. Owen, now Owen was a burly man. A bit on the stout side maybe, but with heavy set muscle and a barrel for a chest. He'd be less easy to pick apart.

"Please," you said again. If begging was what it took, then you'd beg, you decided. "We don't have to do this." Or maybe you did have to, and it was good that Owen made that call while you were able to claim innocence?

"Shut up," he growled.

You glanced at Owen. His jaw flexed. His eyes were feverish.

"We've _got_ to do this (Firstname). Rais wants him dead, and if we can get him dead, we can get all the Antizin we'll ever need. We'll be _good_."

His argument was solid, but killing a person? You swallowed. No one remained untouched by violence these days. That was a fact. That you'd had to defend yourself more often than you cared to remember, that was a fact too. Ever since the Outbreak had thrown Harran into Chaos is had been fight or flight, and running wasn't always an option. You knew, too, that you'd hurt people. They'd been out to hurt you first though. You'd defended yourself, damn the consequences. Damn that, maybe, just maybe, some of them hadn't lived. You'd never stuck around long enough to find out.

"Let's go," Owen tore your thoughts down. He scuttled around the car and across the street.

He kept his head down, moved to hide behind a turned over blue convertible. Bit by bit he advanced. He tried to get the drop on the man who'd knocked the feet out from under the second Biter, and was bringing his boot down on the thing's head. You didn't even know the man's name, but considering what Owen was about to do, that was probably a good thing.

Owen carried a metal baseball bat with him. He picked up speed. Started running. Raised the bat.

And you, you realised, were still hunkered behind the car. The fingers of your right hand were tightly clutched around the door handle, and no matter how much you tried, you couldn't get your knees to move.

"What the—" the man explained as he saw Owen come charging right at him. He sidestepped around the fallen Biter, brought up the crowbar in one hand, and extended his other in a placating gesture.

"Man, you don't want to—" he never got to finish the sentence. Owen swung his bat.

The swing came down hard. The man grabbed his crowbar in a two handed grip, and caught the blow. He staggered. Owen swung again. _CLANK_. Metal struck metal. This time he pushed back, just as Owen came swinging for the third time. Owen lost his balance, tripped.

"Stay the fuck _down_ ," the man barked at him, his crowbar raised in warning.

Owen didn't listen. He surged to his feet, swung his weapon to swat the crowbar aside, and caught the man in a shoulder tackle against his midriff. They knocked into the pharmacy shutters, which rattled loudly. Owen roared. He drove a fist into the man's side, once, then twice. Then an elbow cracked down on him, and a knee snapped into his stomach, and the roar turned into a series of grunts. The two men struggled against the pharmacy shutters, neither of them getting their weapons into the struggle through the struggle. Eventually, Owen had his head to the side (you winced at that), and forced to back out of the grapple. He withdrew three steps, his chest heaving as he sucked in air.

There was a moment, right then, when Owen seemed to reconsider his plan. He looked over his shoulder, looked for _you_ , but then his hips twisted, and he got a knee forward and got the bat ready to retaliate.

The crowbar cracked into the side of Owen's head. You heard the crunch, that sickening crunch of bone giving way. And Owen fell.

One moment he'd been up. The next, he wasn't.

You felt your knees lose their lock. They turned weak and hit the asphalt. This couldn't be right. No. This hadn't just happened. Couldn't have. Your vision blurred, your throat constricted. There were tears in your eyes. Furious, hot tears. A tiny, broken wheeze squeezed itself through your lips.

" _Fuck,_ " you heard the man who'd murdered Owen groan. Something metal hit the pavement, and when you forced yourself to look again, you noticed he'd dropped his crowbar and was rubbing at the back of his head with both his hands. He paced away form the dead Owen.

Then his chin jerked up, and he looked right at you.

Your eyes widened.

He started towards you, pausing only briefly to stoop over and pick up his bloodied crowbar. Desperate anger rolled in front of him. It drew his shoulders forward, tensed his arms, and showed in every step as he marched for the car.

Halfway across, he paused, cocked his head to the side. Listening. You heard it too, the aggravated shrieks of a pack of Virals drawn by the noise of Owen's murder. They came piling over a tall wall, toppling down the other side and then rushing back to their feet with their air-rending shrieks ringing in your ears. You got to your feet, pushed yourself off the car, and with your legs still wobbly, hurried back into the tunnel.

"Hey!" You heard the murderer shout. _'Yes,'_ you thought. _'Make more noise.'_ Maybe the Virals would rip him limb from limb for it, and Owen wouldn't have died for no more than his own stubborn idiocy…

 **Y** ou returned when the noise died down. The street lay quiet and empty, save for a cluster of Biters that had been drawn forward by the ruckus maybe ten minutes ago. They were far enough away for you to dare walk forward. All except one, which was hunched over by the rear end of the flipped over car. You didn't find the man, but you really hadn't expected to. He'd probably run. Lived.

Ten minutes. Your eyes flicked to the Biter. It kneeled over a pair of baggy, beige cargo pants. They jerked while the Biter tore at the torso attached to the legs. Owen. It was eating Owen.

You felt sick. Or guilty. Probably both. Your lungs squeezed the last breath you'd taken tightly. It hurt. You looked away, and noticed Owen's baseball bat lying just a few meters to your right. You walked over to it, picked it up. It was heavy. Too heavy for you to lug around. But it'd do. You raised it high, stalked back to the Biter, and caved it's skull in.

Owen was ripped open, a grisly display of slick red worming itself from his abdomen. His eyes stared unseeing toward the skies. His mouth hung open. His head looked… dented. You squeezed your lips into a thin line, hunkered down, and found the vial of Antizin Owen had been carrying with him.

He'd not need it any more. But you would. You stood, squirrelled the vial into a pocket, and thought of all the Antizin you could get for avenging Owen's death.

You dropped the bat, looked around, and wondered where to start looking. Old Town was big, but he'd turn up. Eventually. And then you'd be ready.


	2. Chapter 2

**Him or You. You or Him.**

 **O** utside, past the walls of the hollow, unfinished minaret tower, thunder rolled through the skies and heavy rain rushed to sweep the world clean. You were glad that you'd made it inside before the downpour started, even if it had been tempting to stay up on a roof somewhere, with your arms parted and your face turned to the dark clouds. The water would have felt heavenly. Fresh. Clean. Warm, a little. Cold, just enough. It would have soaked you, inside and out. Left you feeling clean, fresh. It would have been fun. Momentarily. Then a nighttime creeper would have snuck up on you, most like, and gotten itself a nice, squeaky clean meal. That'd have ruined the moment, you thought.

Instead, you'd slipped into the relatively secure tower through the single, gaping window with the white canvas draped over it, proclaiming it to be _SAFE_ in washed out green letters. This place was home, of sorts, a place you'd returned to often since it was just accessible enough, but too rickety to attract the attention of permanent squatters.

The walls around you rocked with another deep rumble of thunder, and the dim lights from the old bulbs flickered briefly. You froze momentarily, your brows still furrowed in concentration as you stared at the checkers board by your knees. The lights stayed. You relaxed.

The board was scratched and stained, the red and white pieces— well, they were all sorts of things. When you'd found the board stashed away in a corner up here, it had been missing half of its pieces. Back then, you'd been running with three men. You'd had good as nothing in common with them, except that one crucial thing that made them _family_ , no matter how dysfunctional it might have been. You were outcasts, the lot of you. Bitten. That brought you together well enough. That you didn't see eye to eye on mostly _anything_ had been beside the point. So even then, while the men had shared from a bottle of sweet liquor, and laughed the night away one crude joke after the other, you'd minded your own business. You'd sat at the edge of the group, the checkers board in front of you, and had counted just how many pieces you'd need to complete the set. Then you'd curled up, and dreamt of better days.

By the time your group had been reduced to just Owen and you, you'd managed to collect enough bottle caps. Some were more red then others, some less, since they had to fit amongst the white bits. You thought it added character, that things didn't _quite_ fit, but just enough. Owen had thought it was stupid.

"Ho-huhm," you hummed to yourself, nudged one of the imposter pieces forward.

Owen had been a terrible opponent at checkers. Clumsy. No foresight. Your lips twitched, an unwelcome frown dragging the corners of your mouth down. So what? At least he'd been an _opponent_. And entertaining. Somewhat. He'd had stories that he shared while you kicked his pieces of the board. Not necessarily _good_ stories. They'd been crude, sometimes abrasive, and you'd often thought that Owen likely thought the Outbreak to have been liberating, giving him freedoms he'd not had before. Maybe that was why he was still alive, and the others were dead. _Had_ been still alive. _Had_.

Silly Owen. Not thinking far ahead at all. He should have made some effort. Maybe he'd not have died if he'd stopped to _think_ for just a moment. You swallowed, hard, and tried not to think of yesterday. That crack. That snap. That Biter with bits of him between its teeth.

Your finger paused, hovered just above a piece. Sharp wind howled around the tower, sent the drape on the window two levels below you snapping wildly. Though there was something else, something that hid, barely, in the steady patter of rain out there. A voice. Irritated. Then, a creak. A grunt.

Your heart stopped. Someone was climbing your tower.

You jumped to your feet, head abuzz with alarm, and quick as you could without thumping your feet down on the wooden planks covered by old carpets, ran for the edge of the platform. The unfinished minaret was a criss-crossing mess of platforms spaced out unevenly along its hollow shaft. The design made it _undesirable_ for most roaming survivors, but you didn't care much about that. It also made it difficult to climb for anything else, like a salivating Viral to name one, a trade off you rather enjoyed.

A practiced jump carried you forward. You grabbed onto the edge of the next level, hauled yourself up. Still quiet. Quiet as you could. Down there, someone else wasn't treading that lightly, but they were making progress.

Just as you'd scuttled away from the edge and ducked behind a crate left behind by the builders of the place, the intruder heaved himself up below you. You couldn't see much through the narrow gaps between the wooden planks, but it was definitely a man.

Men were tricky. Men were dangerous. So what if you'd left your pack down there. It had gotten terribly light the last few days anyway. Not much to lose. Two cans of food. An old, stale bottle of some questionable energy drink. Half a packet of things useful only for women, and a pile of other nonsense. Your flashlight was about the only thing you'd really miss.

You watched the shape move about the dimly lit area, now much more careful than he'd been during his climb. His shadow slid along the walls, then stooped as he stood still. For a moment, the rain and wind rushing outside grew to a deafening roar as you strained to listen.

He cleared his throat. You flinched. "Anyone in here?"

A cold noose settled itself around your neck and yanked it shut. _"Hey!"_ you'd heard that voice scream at you as you'd run away, right after Owen had himself killed.

"Hello?"

You squeezed your jaw shut and bid your muscles to cease all and every movement. Even the slightest twitch. Stop. Your heart drummed loudly in your chest. Then stopped when a pair of hands appeared at the edge of the platform, quickly followed by the rest of him. You slid back. Kept your head down.

Careful steps carried him around the platform. You heard something click. A flashlight? His breathing was shallow, rapid. He'd been running, or gotten winded by the climb.

"I'm not here for any trouble," he said. Not shouted, no, but his voice still carried itself like it expected to be heard, despite the slight hitch in it like he wasn't sure if he'd really like an answer. When you stayed still, and didn't grace him with an answer, he puffed out a quick breath. The click again. Definitely a flashlight. Cloth rustled, boots shuffled, and then wood creaked and you saw him land back down below you.

"Jumping at shadows, Crane," the man muttered to himself.

 _Crane_. So, now you knew his name. Crane. A man named Crane had killed Owen. A man named Crane stood between you and as much Antizin as you could ever possibly need before some idiot cracked _your_ skull in. The thought came quick. Unbidden. No— no you couldn't. Could you?

You frowned. In your chest, your heart had gone from drumming to a full on galloping sprint. You could. You _had to_. Resolve settled in your stomach. Heavy, leaden. It got your feet moving. Slowly. Inch by inch you crept forward, until you found a spot that gave you a decent view through the planks at the man.

He'd hunkered down by your pack. He was looking through it. _'Ass,'_ you thought. Though it reminded you that you'd left your knife down there, too. _'Idiot,'_ you told yourself.

The ma—Crane—lost interest in your meagre belongings and stood. He rolled his head, one hand pressed against his neck, and let out a long, drawn out sigh. A hint of frustration, with a side of pain, you thought.

Curiosity kept you still where you were, and you decided to take a good peek at him while you made up your mind on what to do. The dim, dirty light wasn't being helpful, but it gave you a decent enough look at his features. He had short, disheveled dark hair and hadn't shaved for a day or two, resulting in a shadow of a beard drawing attention to a well defined jaw. Unlike you, who had been diligent enough to get inside, _he_ was drenched from the rain. Head to toe, too.

A pair of light brown eyes stared at the ceiling, preoccupied with some thought or the other. He blinked, then wiped the water from his eyes with the back of his hand, smudging fresh dirt over his forehead. If he'd not murdered Owen, you might have thought the face handsome, strong nose and brow and all that. Even with the scrapes, the grime, and all of him dripping water.

Though all you could think of at that point, was that he definitely stood taller than you'd like. By at least a head. Or two. But that didn't mean anything, you tried to tell yourself. Tall might mean slow. Might mean dumb. Might mean a lot of things. It was the _gun_ that gave you pause. He wore a shoulder holster, tightly strapped to his left side over a simple, black t-shirt clinging to his chest. At least you couldn't see the crowbar anywhere. Instead, he sported a hatchet hanging from the belt keeping his grubby, soaked jeans in place. Then again, that wasn't much better.

Hatchet. Crowbar. Both hurt.

Crane dropped his hands to his sides and turned on the spot, surveying the place. Then he walked over to the fuse box, gave that a once over, before he apparently decided he'd inspected the place enough and could make himself at home.

He unclipped his shoulder holster.

You watched him slip out of it, and carefully place it by the side of the makeshift bed made of nothing more than a thin, frayed mattress and a patchwork blanket.

Better, you thought. Now about that hatchet…

While you were starting to try and figure out if anything up here could be used as a weapon, he grabbed for his shirt by the collar, and pulled it over his head. Your thoughts tripped just when they'd wondered if you could somehow push the crate on his head.

So, his type of tall came with strong. Not on the burly end of things, but thick, taut wire for muscle that were entirely functional. Crane flicked the shirt once, then twice, then turned to squeezing the water from it. You, in the meantime, skirted around thoughts of firm shoulders, and tore your eyes back up when they started hiking into the general direction of down. Thankfully, he turned his back to you, flung the shirt at a hook nailed to the wall, and then ran his hands through his hair like he was trying to flick the water out of that too. His back was a mess, you noticed. Purple, blue and green and red— one bruise after the other warred for attention, like he'd rolled over a peacock. Poor thing, you thought, though you weren't sure if you were thinking of the bird, or the man who'd killed Owen.

Eventually, Crane sighed again, a weary sigh this time around, one that came with a heavy shrug of his bruised shoulders. He leaned forward, propped himself up with his left arm against the wall.

Murderers, it seemed, got tired too. The way his fingers twitched and how his shoulders slumped, you thought (and hoped) he was fighting exhaustion. That'd make things easier. By a mile. Not like you'd figured out the _thing_ yet. You tried to think of it while you watched him roll his right shoulder. Definitely tired. You also noticed the scar on his arm. A bite mark. It didn't change a thing, but you wondered if— your thoughts knocked into each other. No. You couldn't think of that. Suppressants, that's what you should be thinking of.

A few, drawn out heartbeats later, Crane grabbed the hatchet on his hip. Pulled it free.

You held your breath.

The hatchet was discarded. It landed with a hollow thud next to the holster. Then he pushed himself from the wall, muttered under his breath (something about fucking storms and things that were wet), and you heard the telltale sliding click of a belt buckle being snapped open.


	3. Chapter 3

**Reluctant:** _Checkers_

* * *

 **L** ighting struck close, and thunder rend the air. It was a startling, sharp crack that threw itself heavy against the walls. It shook the minaret tower, got the bricks trembling and the wooden boards creaking against their fittings. Dust trickled from the ceiling.

You flinched. Your left hand had wrapped tight around the edge of the platform, and you'd coiled your muscles, ready to leap. _'Wait—'_ you'd told yourself, but that stupid thunder ruined it all.

Crane's shoulders twitched. A shower of brick flakes dusted the top of his head, and he tilted his neck back to blink upwards, towards the gap in the platform above him. He did, in fact, turn his head right at you. His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open.

With your heart in your throat, but a clear decision burnt into it, you pushed yourself forward. Whether he was just slow, or had gotten startled by spotting you perched above him like an alley cat ready to pounce a rat in the gutter, you didn't know. Nor did you care. You'd positioned yourself perfectly, had prepared. Had thought ahead. Inch by inch you'd crept forward until you'd been right above him, with his back still turned to you.

"What the _FU—_!" He started, but then you were on him. You looped your right arm around his throat, locking it in place with your free left. Just like they did in the movies. And how you'd seen Owen do it in brawls, friendly or otherwise. Of course you weren't as tall as Owen, or as heavy, or as strong, but that shouldn't really matter.

You'd planned, so diligently, to get your knees into his spine. That should have hurt him, maybe even crippled him. But you missed, your knees sliding off his bare back, leaving your legs dangling in the air, uselessly searching for purchase. You still squeezed—and then you squeezed some more and squeezed-squeezed-squeezed, until he started staggering back. His knees buckled. Your toes found the floor.

His skin was clammy against your arms, and entirely too hot, like you were hugging the life out of a damp, sunbaked rock. The rock gasped for air.

His hand came up. It clamped around your right arm, fingers working to slip under it and tear it free from his throat. You strained, pulled harder. How long did it take to choke a man out anyway? He grunted, or growled— or something in-between and you swore you could feel the sound vibrating against your chest as you clung on for dear life. Or dear murder, rather.

Then he whipped around, lifting your feet off the ground again, and marched backwards. Your back slammed into the wall. The weight of him crushed the air from your lungs in one wet cough. Your vision turned to black, your grip loosened. Bright white sparks fired behind your eyelids. The world flaked out of existence, tumbled away in a rush of laboured breathing and hard rain. When it rushed back in, you drew in a long wheezing breath.

He snatched your arm. Bent forward. You were flung over his shoulder like a good as empty sack of grain being unceremoniously dumped to the floor. Your teeth snapped shut, biting down hard on your tongue. You tasted blood. Tasted bile.

 _'_ _Open your eyes!'_

"Jesus fucking Christ—"

 _'_ _Open your EYES!'_

Your eyes snapped open. He dove right at you. One hand grabbed your left leg. His fingers squeezed. The other was going for your throat, eager to return the favour of choking the life out of you. You snapped your free leg up, planted your boot on his naked chest and pushed him just enough to get the hand sliding off your leg. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

You scampered backwards, your hands blindly groping at the floor. _'There. Board.'_ You grabbed the checkers board, flung it at him. Bottle caps and all.

He swatted it right out of the air, took half a shuffling step back, and shielding his eyes from the caps bouncing off his arms and shoulders, harmlessly clattering back to the platform or right off its edge into the hollow shaft.

You got your legs under you, and having run out of options, darted to the mattress.

"Oh no you _don't_ —" You heard him groan, but if there was one thing to be said about you, you were a quick little thing. You got your hands on the handle of his discarded gun. This could have gone wrong, of course. If he'd not been paranoid enough to think he might need to draw it quick while he slept, it might have been secured to the holster. But it wasn't.

It slid right free. You clicked off the safety even as you sprang to your feet, and pointed the business end at the man named Crane who'd murdered Owen.

He froze, with his arms parted and palms turned up towards you. An intense stare locked onto you— one void of fear, but overburdened by confusion and determination. You swallowed. You'd never _shot_ anyone before. You'd never killed anyone before either, not with the intent of doing so. And certainly not while they looked right at you, their chest and shoulders rising and falling with laboured breaths. Or with their jeans hanging open and halfway down his hip, making a show of a pair of white and red boxers. You blinked. Those weren't hearts, were they? You blinked again. They were. Some still functioning, rational part of you told you that this was why he'd only used one hand when he'd tried to get you off his back. He'd been desperately trying to keep his pants up with the other, so they'd not slide to his ankles and trip him. Your lizard brain, in the meantime, took notes on the ridges of corded muscle lining his tense stomach, inevitable waking some tiny noise in the back of your head that broke into a frustrated, maniac giggle. The rest of you seemed to momentarily agree with the sentiment, until you remembered why you were pointing a gun at him. Owen, dead. Suppressants, you.

As if to make a point, another bolt of lightning struck close by. The lights flickered. Thunder broke against the tower.

"What's _wrong_ with you people?" He groaned. "What have I done to you!"

You opened your mouth to respond. Then you flexed your fingers around the grip of the gun. You were supposed to shoot him, not have a conversation with him.

"So?" He took a step towards you. "You deaf?" A slow shuffle of his feet. "Mute?" Barely noticeable. You jutted the gun forward. He stopped.

"You ki—" Blood. There was blood in your mouth. Your words slurred slightly, and you turned your head to the side, spat the blood over the edge of the platform. When you looked back at him you wondered if he'd moved again. He probably had. Sneaky piece of shit.

"You killed my friend."

His brow pinched and his lips turned down in what might have been a genuine frown— or maybe he just couldn't remember everyone he killed so he had to think about it.

"Yesterday," you reminded him.

Now he looked straight out crestfallen. His shoulders dropped a little and he let out an audible, bitter sigh.

"I'm sorry." He sounded like he meant it.

You decided not to fall for that.

"Sorry isn't going to get him back to me. Sorry isn't going to get me meds either."

Again his brow creased. Angry, this time. Why were you even talking to him?

"Rais isn't going to give you shit."

The gun was getting heavy in your sweaty grip, pointing a little too far down for your liking. So you adjusted your hold on it, hoping it wouldn't just slip right from your fingers. He tracked your every move, his eyes darting from yours to the barrel staring at him, and then back at you.

"I don't have a choice," you said. Now that was the truth, and for the first time he looked worried, as if he'd not really considered getting shot by a girl before.

"Yes— yes you do. You can _not_ shoot me. We can talk this through. Look, I have Antizin." His feet moved again. "I know another place that has it, and they won't need you to kill anyone to get it."

"You're lying."

His head cocked to the side. His right shoulder twitched. Or at least it did something— just before he came at you. You squeezed the trigger.

The shot was fucking loud, a deafening crack that hammered through the minaret shaft. It also went wide. He'd stepped in, knocked your arm up. A steely grip fastened around your wrist, and a forearm connected with your throat. You were pushed back, until brick dug into your spine and you were effortlessly lifted off your feet with the arm crushing your throat. But you didn't let go of the gun. You clung on to it, despite your wrist screaming in pain as it was being ground to bonemeal. Your free hand clawed at him, couldn't find any hold with him not having a shirt on, and eventually you just held on to his arm with a panicked grip. _'Breathe, need to breathe. Don't stop breathing…'_

"Let. Go." He growled.

You kicked at his legs, but he moved them out of the way. Then you tried to get your knees up, but he just hoisted you a little higher and snapped his hip forward to flatten you against the wall. You wiggled and you squirmed, but there wasn't even enough room left to draw in that breath you desperately needed. His own breath ghosted against your cheek, a worked up puff of air rolling off your shoulders. He wasn't even an inch away. So fucking close.

Now that was stupid. You went for his throat. With your teeth.

Before you could take a bite out of him though, he recoiled just out of reach. The grip on your wrist twisted. You screamed, and your finger twitched against the trigger again.

This time, the bullet found a target: The fusebox. Sparks flew, and the bulbs blew out.

What was left of the light were the handful of candles you'd scattered around the platform, since you liked candles and they made the place feel a little less depressing. They were doing a terrible job at keeping the place lit though, with their flicking glow barely managing to cast shadows against the dark that had just come rushing in.

This could have gone better. All of it.

You heard his breath hitch in his throat, and then, as if he'd just decided that enough was enough, he shoved your gun arm back into the brick wall. Once, and you yelped. Twice, and you screamed. As he made for number three, your fingers opened, and the gun clattered to the floor.

You were probably screaming still, you weren't sure, since all you could think of was that this was going to end now, and you'd been just as stupid as Owen. But you'd do as Owen did, and you'd go out fighting if that's what it took.

So you tried to get your hand to his face, tried to claw his damn eyes out if you could, but that just pissed him off more. You felt something solid drive into your stomach. He'd punched you. Again your lungs emptied themselves. You jackknifed forward, folding together and collapsing in a heap on the floor.

"Will you just stay—"

You didn't know where the gun was. But the hatched. The hatched—thehatchetthehatchet… you started half crawling half scuttling for the mattress, a faint spark of hope still persistently burning in your gut. He cared little for that spark, or your persistence. A hard yank at your belt stopped you, and you were roughly pulled back across the floor, chin scraping on the wood.

"Get. Back. Here." The voice was sliding right up your spine. Heavy and unbelievably determined.

You flipped around, threw a punch blindly upwards. It connected with an open hand, which folded closed around it and pushed down against your chest.

He'd dropped to the floor with you and hovered above you with a harassed look on his face. Like he was the one about to die. Not you.

You tried to snap your knee up into his groin— where he'd still not had the chance to get his pants in order —but he kept your legs securely pinned with his. The weight hurt. You let out a frustrated whine, bucked your hips and slammed your head back into the planks, all the while wiggling and squirming desperately.

"Shut up," Crane hissed and muffled your follow up cry with a cupped hand. You did the only thing that seemed sensible… snapping your teeth at it.

"Ouch — Fucks sake!" The hand pushed down harder. You could barely breath.

"Sssh—" And just like that he was back to crushing you. " _Please_ be quiet."

You inhaled through your nose. Unwashed skin. Sweat. It was a harsh mix that muddled your already oxygen starved brain. You realised your head was spinning, and that your ears still rang faintly with the discharge of the weapon.

This was it then? A good enough effort, maybe— just not enough planning. A bit like Owen, really. Stupid Owen. Stupid _you_.

Above you, Crane's breathing had fallen into a quiet, but quick rhythm. His head was turned away from you, his light brown eyes scanning the platform for what you figured was the gun he'd made you drop. The faint gloom of the candles dipped him in thick shadows, and drew solemn, deep furrows on his features. His lips moved quietly. Curses, you figured. At least half of them aimed at you and your bodged attempt at murder.

He found the gun. As he leaned to the side, shifting his weight off you, one of your legs slipped free. _'Might as well.'_ You didn't hesitate. With one quick jerk upwards you drove your knee up into his groin.

Crane doubled over, choking up a pitiful grunt of pain. A series of colourful words came hacking up his throat a heartbeat later, mostly beginning and ending with _Bitch_ while you tried to get your feet back under you.

Still dizzy, you realised. Worse now that you were upright. You staggered one step to the side, aiming for the hatchet. But he'd have none of that, and even though he was gritting his teeth and looking mighty pale, Crane surged to his feet and put himself between you and the weapon.

You recoiled. Your left foot decided to catch your right. Vertigo snagged at you. It reminded you where you'd stood. Just by the edge where the darkness crept from the bowels of the minaret tower. Just there, with one step between you and the fall.

You tripped.

Crane flung himself forward, his eyes about as wide as yours. He reached for your flailing arms, and you felt the faint brush of his fingers against your hand. Faint and brief.

And then you fell.

* * *

 **Taffer's Notes:** Right. This was supposed to be a 3 part piece, written over at Ao3 for a lovely author of Dying Light and Avenger Reader Inserts. 3 parts are over, and I'm going to have to decide what happens to you now as you tumble down the minaret tower into the pitch black.

Anyone got any requests on where they want this to be headed?


	4. Chapter 4

**Taffer Notes:** I'm so not happy with this one. This scene did not lend itself well to second person narration :D But I still hope you had uh- fun? Is that what we can call this? :)

* * *

 **Reluctant:** _In and out._

* * *

 **T** he fall tore time out from under you.

It gave you a chance to look at the wooden planks above you, covered in thin cobwebs gathering flakey dust. You'd never noticed that before, been too busy playing checkers, repairing your gear, or counting your food rations. You'd never paid any attention to the cracked walls either, how they'd been stained by moisture and time and just not enough care. Now, as you tilted backwards, your arms grasping at the air in desperation, that was all you saw and all you could think of. Then the thin sheet of light of the candles stayed up there while you kept falling, and time came rushing back in.

Your arm cracked into something solid; one of the wooden beams meant to carry a floor or a stairwell, but ultimately just being in the way. You tried to latch onto it. Failed. The impact jolted your bones and knocked you off course. Then your back met another beam. Bright light flared behind your eyelids. More pain. You bounced off, were hurled deeper into the darkness. Even more pain. Your side this time, and your head, and your legs and your damn _everything_.

Noise collapsed around you. Either you'd just been shattered to pieces, or you'd crashed right through one of the rickety stages, and all the boards cracked and snapped under you. The difference was difficult to tell. Though you _did_ slow, even if just momentarily, a slight hitch before you continued plummeting to your death.

The sudden stop was just that. Sudden. A shrill chime rung your ears. Your sight was knocked out. You tried to breathe. That worked. You tried to move. That didn't. There was something wrong with your right leg as you made an effort to lift it from the floor. It felt numb. Your _bones_ in it tingled, and that was just wrong. Your arms twitched weakly, scraping against rough floorboards underneath you.

Again, time seemed to insist it had better things to do than stick around. It came and went, along with your vision, and at first you didn't even notice the lance of light cutting through the abyss above you. This was all backwards, you thought. Up was down, and down was up, and that light was dancing way too quickly as you tried to focus on it.

The madly bobbing beam zeroed in on you, and then it came clambering down the minaret tower shaft. Of course that was ridiculous. Lights didn't climb. The man attached to it did though, the one you'd just tried to kill.

Crane was methodical as he moved, or at least he was in-between the moments of your vision fading in and out. You noticed how he carried the flashlight in his mouth, and how he carefully planted his feet against the wall while his hands navigated from wooden rung to brick outcropping, never hesitating, as if he'd done this a hundred times.

And then there was suddenly two of them. One still climbing, the other bounding through the air and landing heavily by your side, right on a patch of ground much darker than it any right to be. You felt the strain of cold dread against your neck, and wished you could curl into yourself, rather than just lying there with a distressed wheeze the sum of all your efforts.

Somewhere up there, the light jerked. It lit up the figure crouching next to you, and you wished it hadn't bothered. A pair of dirty orange eyes stared at you, greedy and hungry and inhuman. They sat in a torn face, arranged mostly of bloody meat where the skin had been peeled off by fingers, or maybe by claws, or maybe just the weather or an unfortunate scrape against the asphalt. The thing let its mouth drop open, baring yellowed teeth at you, and you knew it was probably making a sound but you still couldn't hear anything above the blood rushing in your ears and your skull ringing after the drop.

It lurched forward, jaws eagerly snapping at the air.

Well, that was it then. At least you wouldn't have to worry about turning into one of them any more once you ran out of Antizin. Stressing over clean water, losing sleep over an empty stomach, and being unreasonably self conscious about dirty clothes and filthy skin— all of that'd be a thing of the past. That thought was strangely comforting.

Then the crazed Viral's chin connected with the ground in front of you. You heard _something_. A thud and a crunch, vague and muffled through the tolling in your head. Grimy darkness rolled over you, and your thoughts turned back to peace.

No more starving— no more worrying— it'd be great.

The Viral got your shoulder first. Tore right into it, firmly curling itself around it. Warm and insisted.

"Hey," it whispered. "Can you hear me?"

The warmth lifted from your shoulder. It skipped to your leg, then to your hip where it felt sticky and wrong. Pain arched away from the touch. You whimpered, tried to twist from the agony. Then the voice came back, and you remembered that Viral's didn't speak. Shriek and scream and bellow, yes. Speak and whisper? No.

"Ah shit— okay… okay, you'll be all right."

You managed to open your eyes, or maybe your eyes just decided to work again, and saw Crane hunched over you. He clutched his flashlight in one hand, and whenever it wasn't pointed at you, it was darting upwards.

"Can you stand?"

Could you? Why did he even care? Shouldn't you have been eaten by now? Your legs moved anyway, tried to figure out if you could do as he asked, and you noticed with some dismay that you just about barely managed to get them to comply.

You shook your head. Slowly.

"Okay, no problem. We can work with that." He exhaled sharply. "I think. Here— just hold on tight. Got it?"

Got what? Your head felt heavy, your thoughts sluggish and teetering at the edge of consciousness. You moved, not because you wanted to, but because an arm had propped you up and then hooked itself under your shoulder. One of your arms found themselves settled around a neck, and your side slotted itself against a body made of nothing but heat.

"No? Can't do that either? Right—" He grunted, grabbed your wrist, and suddenly your feet were off the ground and your eyes pointed downwards. They registered the Viral just outside the sphere of light that came with Crane, though his chest blocked out most of the still figure lying crumpled on the ground. Your cheek pressed against his damp, warm skin. There was a terribly worked up heart drumming in his ribcage. It was a little hypnotic. _Tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-tha-thump-thump-_

"Dahd's going doo gee a liddle duff," he muttered.

What now? You blinked. Speaking with your mouth full was rude, or at least it had been at some point when being rude had still been something you'd been worried about. That had been _before_ you'd decided to try and murder the man who was now trying to save your life. Because murder, you thought, was the epitome of bad manners.

He'd transferred the flashlight to his mouth, kept it locked between his teeth while he dragged you across the platform that had broken your fall. You tried, you really did, to help by placing one foot in front of the other, but all you managed was to trip yourself. The world tilted at odd angles, walls shifting and the floorboards wobbling. The only constant was the warmth carrying you. That at least stayed upright. And the heart, that wasn't going anywhere either. _Tha-thump-tha-thump-thump-thump_

"Ideath?" Crane was whispering, more to himself than the almost-dead weight hanging off him. He stood still for a moment, his breathing coming quick and laboured. What was he waiting for? A revelation? More Virals, or something much worse, to come spilling through the open window, right along with the rush of rain?

The flashlight winked out.

"Can you do me a favour?"

Crane gave your wrist a firm tug. His back shifted, a shoulder slipping under you, and then he lowered himself just enough to hoist you onto his back. He coaxed your other arm around his neck, and with your mind still shot to bits, you didn't immediately catch on to what he was getting at.

"You were doing such a good job back there. Just pretend you're trying to kill me again, okay?"

He wanted you to do what now? Kill him? Your arms tightened. "Oh," you managed, and tried to _not_ kill him while you clung on to his neck. This time for dear life, rather than dear murder.

Even without the flashlight guiding him, Crane seemed perfectly capable of finding his way toward the patch of wet wood just below the window. You felt fresh, crisp air fill your lungs— and then came the water, the cool pitter patter of each drop against your skin.

You only realised he'd been climbing by the time he reached the window, and the first gust of wind tore at your face. Lightning arched through the skies when Crane pulled the both of you up. The thunder was a few seconds out this time. It rumbled through the streets, almost perfectly in tune with a strained growl from Crane. You weren't that heavy, were you? His shoulders shook, and you saw his arm tremble at the edge of your vision as he braced himself against the edge of the window. His free hand fastened around your right thigh, pulled your leg forward. You'd started slipping down his back, you realised, and your arms squeezed around his neck to keep you from falling again. It didn't help. Your stomach lurched with vertigo, and you fell regardless of how tightly you held on. Forward, this time, dropping right out of the window, still attached to Crane's back like some retarded little monkey.

He landed with a pained grunt and collapsed under you. Wet, hard ground smacked into your shoulder as you were thrown off, and did something excruciatingly painful with your hip. You didn't even bother screaming, just let your mouth hang open and the rain wash away the pain. You felt heavy. Sluggish. There was another tug on your shoulder, followed by pressure under your arm. The ground spun away.

"Stay with me," Crane insisted, sounding like he stood miles away, his voice struggling to get to you.

You thought that funny. First of, you didn't really seem to have a choice. Second, he was obviously right there, once again dragging you forward.

"Shit—" He spun you around. The world started bouncing. Something shrieked, a guttural, mangled sound that you _knew_ you should be worried about, but your own heart was already kicking fast as it could, and the shriek sounded too far away to be of any consequence to warrant a heart attack.

So you let it drift off, ignored it, because the silence and the dark was a lot more comfortable than all that noise out there. Your eyes fell shut.

"— your help."

 _'_ _What?'_

The world had gone pleasantly quiet, until Crane's voice flicked the lights back on. You realised you were standing. Sort of. Your cheek rested against a cold, wet wall.

"Grab the ledge," he hissed and he hoisted you up, first with his his arms under yours, then by your belt and then by shoving your backside until you finally realised that you could help by draping your elbow over the ledge he'd been talking about. You half pulled, half crawled, and somehow managed to roll over flat. There was no rain up here. Your eyes took in a whole lot of nothing, and again silence came pressing in.

You wanted to throw up, and maybe you did, sometimes between the nothings and the somethings as you drove in and out of consciousness.

At one point the rain came back, and lightning raced across the skies. Your head lolled to the side as you tried to figure out where the bolt was going, but all you found was Crane.

He stood with his legs in a wide stance, chest rising and falling heavily while he faced a gangly figure. The figure rushed him. His arm snapped forward, and you heard that meaty crunch again, the one that had killed Owen. Just like that it was yesterday— and then just like that it was today— and then it was now, and Crane turned to you. Light flashed. You squeezed your eyes shut. Then you smelled blood and you felt warmth, and then nothing—

—until the ground under you melted, turning cold and soft. The back of your head was cradled in a pool of warm comfort. You opened your eyes.

There was Owen's murderer again. Still not wearing a shirt, but having painted himself with stripes of red. Blood. He frowned down at you. The warmth against your head was his hand, carefully holding you up while he looked at you. You thought about saying something, but drew a blank when you tried to pick a word, and ended up staring lamely until his hand slid away and made room for something cushiony. It smelled musty and old.

"Don't go anywhere," he said. Was he trying to be funny on purpose now?

Then he got up, left you lying in a ring of light from a single bulb somewhere above you, and you had to resort to watching him leave. He crossed the room and vanished through a nondescript door.

 _'_ _No— come back… please?'_

You tried to sit, but there was that pain again, sharp and dull at the same time, throbbing right up your spine and into your skull. Your arms worked though, and with considerably effort you managed to at least prop up your torso.

Pillows. A pile of colourful pillows lay squashed under you, and there were more strewn all over the carpeted floor. Square ones, round ones, oblong ones— there were too damn many to count. You squinted. No, you were just seeing double. When your arms started shaking, and your neck spasmed with the strain of being bent awkwardly, you dropped back down and allowed yourself a moment of unadulterated panic.

You'd seen the state you were in, the dark wet patch of blood that had soaked through the jeans at your hip. The lower half of your right pant leg had been torn up too, exposing skin and more blood, and there was probably more. Even through the thick fog in your head you figured that the fall must have done considerable damage.

You tried to decide if you wanted to know just how much of you was broken, when the door opened and let in a distinct lack of rain.

Your head turned. Crane pushed the door shut. He paused, stood quiet for a moment while he did that thing where he rubbed at the back of his skull, likely pondering the miserable situation he was in. You were off worse, of course, and you wanted to tell him _something_ , but you couldn't figure out what that something was. Eventually he turned on the spot, paced towards the bookshelf next to the door, and threw his weight against it until it fell across the entrance.

What had you been meaning to say? And had it really been important? The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but whenever you tried to fish them from your head they kept diving right back into the fog. So you watched Crane walk over to you and wondered if he'd fixed his belt before, or after, he'd come climbing down the minaret tower.

He knelt.

"You still with me?" His eyes flicked left, then right, and you felt a careful tug against the bloodied rim of your shirt. The way he pinched his brow wasn't very reassuring.

Crane pushed himself up and started tossing the room around you, and you wondered if he'd find whatever he was looking for before you'd finally get a grip on those elusive words.

"You're tough," he called. "Almost got me back there."

You sighed, closed your eyes, let his voice and the hurried footsteps drift off. Maybe the words weren't that significant after all. Maybe sleep was a better idea.

"Hey— hey, don't pass out on me."

Why not? You were really damned tired. But he'd asked nicely, so you got your eyes open and stared at the room. It was pretty, you decided. A bit messy, but pretty, its walls covered in carpets rather than wallpaper and its interior homely and simple— Dull pain throbbed through your midriff. You clenched your jaw.

Crane was back, and he'd turned his attention to the the sticky cloth on your hip. Whatever it was, it stung. And then it exhaled a sorry little whimper and fled back into the dark. At least there things hurt considerably less.

"What's your name?"

What did that matter now? You tried to turn your head the other way, a little further from his voice, but he grabbed your chin. His fingers felt warm and wet and they smelled of blood.

You looked at him.

"Can you tell me your name?" He repeated.

Of course you could. What a ridiculous question was that?

"Thank you."

Oh, so there they were, those words you'd been looking for. Just in time too, since then came the comfort of sleep, and you'd be damned if you'd let him keep you from it.

* * *

 **Taffer Notes:** I was feeling a bit cold when I was writing this, so this might have transferred over. Sorry. And yeah, I might be a big sucker for warm things, especially warm bodies. It could be that I am letting you share some of that.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Taffer Notes:_** _I am displeased by 's editing capacities. Chapter is now up to date with the version available on Ao3. Last edits done 26th of April._

 ** _Day 10._**

* * *

 **T** he first thought that crossed your mind when you woke was deceptively simple and altogether pointless.

 _'What day is it?'_

You opened your eyes and tried to roll to your side, your hand reaching out for a bedside table clock that you'd left behind in another life. You tried almost every morning, and every single time your hand slapped down on an empty dream.

Today though, today you couldn't even roll over. Sharp pain throbbed through your abdomen. Pins and needles sliced into your skin, scraped against your legs, your back, your stomach- and just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, someone jabbed a knife against the base of your nape. The blade dug in deep and tore up your spine from top to bottom.

You worked your mouth open. Your jaw felt stiff and alien. Your lips dry, skin flaky and tasting of copper when you pushed the tip of your tongue against them.

Then you remembered, and every sore muscle, every aching bone, and the dull press of pain between your eyes began to make sense. Owen's death. You attacking his killer. Him saving your life.

Him dumping you on a pile of musty pillows. You still lay on top of the pile, though it had scattered while you'd slept, leaving you sprawled out on an uneven surface. The room looked the same too, its walls and floor covered in thick carpets. Now that you had a little more light you saw that it wasn't as small as you'd originally thought. You occupied a spacious living room, almost luxurious with all the dark, solid wooden furniture. Three equally expensive looking doors led from the room. All of them closed.

You were alone.

Alone. Hurting. Confused. Hungry, thirsty- things kept piling up, and you decided there was no point in lying on your back being squashed by self pity, and decided to sit. A thin patchwork blanket had been draped over you, and when you straightened it slipped from under your chin to gather in your lap.

You blinked. No shirt. You weren't wearing a shirt. Your mouth snapped shut. You had linen wrapped around your chest instead. That wasn't yours. How'd that get there? Were you still wearing your bra under that? It didn't feel like it. The fabric was pulled taut, almost painfully squashing your breasts to your chest.

You looked down, gingerly lifted the blanket, and confirmed what your legs had been trying to tell you ever since you'd woken up. No pants either. Though at least you were still wearing underwear.

The edges of it peeked out from under even more linen, this time tightly wrapped around your waist and stretching over your hipbone. It was soaked in blood.

You felt cold. Exposed. Vulnerable. The empty room with its solid walls was no more comfort than a glass cubicle in the middle of Time Square would have been.

Clothes. You needed clothes and at this point anything would do. Maybe you could find a curtain somewhere which you could fashion a toga out of. It didn't really matter, as long as you could cover yourself. You needed food, too. Water. Panic fluttered through your stomach. Your breathing turned to quick, distressed gulps of air, until your head spun and you expected yourself to pass out again.

You needed to get up. Confident that this was a good start to things, you worked your way through the frantic fear and tried to stand. First by pushing yourself up with your arms and your legs. That didn't work, you just fell back again. Then by grabbing on to the wall by your right and pulling yourself up, which got you halfway there and into a clumsy step forward. But then your stiff muscles betrayed you and the wound on your hip flared with fresh pain. You fell forward.

You caught your fall clumsily and felt your chin crack into the carpet. A single step had exhausted you beyond belief, and even as you tried to push yourself up again your arms gave out from under you. Your abdomen was on fire, as if you'd just gotten kicked by a spiked heel. You whimpered.

This was not funny. Who had thought it'd be hilarious to leave you battered and bruised, rather than comfortable and dead? You couldn't do a fucking thing! You'd be dead the moment a Biter found this place anyway, and it'd be worse than whatever could have happened last night.

Your answer walked through a door. The footfalls froze somewhere by your left, then picked up speed, and then a set of warm hands found your shoulders and pulled you up.

You recognised him even with his shirt on, put the name _Crane_ to the strong jawline and the alarmed, light brown eyes. He lifted one of your arms around his neck and tucked you against his side with the other.

Wait. Your cheeks flushed. He couldn't have. No— no— he couldn't have stripped you down and then wrapped you up in linen. No. Please no.

"You okay?"

"Yeah—" you lied.

"You're bleeding," he added a moment later, and you turned your face up to catch him glancing down the length of you. "We need to get the bandage changed."

"I— I can do that." No, you couldn't.

He quirked a brow at you. "Bullshit. Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Crane walked you over to one of the doors, nudged it open with his boot, and half carried, half dragged you into a bathroom on the other side. A _fancy_ bathroom. It had a big tub, made of clean white porcelain and a mosaic trim in blues, yellows and oranges.

He sat you down on the edge of the tub, leaned your back against the wall, and then left you sitting there while he retreated back out of the bathroom.

Your mind had taken to droning with white noise. It buzzed out your thoughts, and you barely registered him coming back. There really wasn't anything you could do, right? And what should you do? Complain? Protest? Tell him not to touch you? Tell him not to carefully peel the linen from your hip? He paused when you hissed with pain— gently placed his hand against your neck before you could squirm away. His fingers squeezed lightly. They stayed there while he continued pulling the cloth off, and all the while he was talking nonsense to you.

He apologised. For Owen. For last night. Said he meant it. Said if he could he'd undo it.

You wanted to tell him it was probably not his fault, but instead you stayed quiet and let him work.

When he asked for your name again, this time pinching your chin between his fingers and turning your face up to him, you managed to tell him.

"Okay, (Firstname)— you've been hurt pretty bad, but nothing we can't fix. Give it a few days and you'll be good as new."

Why did he look so damn concerned when he said that and not at all convinced about it?

You nodded slowly.

"Great. Now, hold still. I'm going to wrap you up again. This will sting a bit though."

Liar. He was a fucking liar. It didn't sting a little. Whatever he'd soaked the bandages in burnt itself right through your bones and you whimpered miserably all the way through.

 **2..**

 **D** ay number two rolled around, and Crane was in and out much like he'd been the day before. He'd come to check on you three times yesterday, and by the third time you almost didn't feel embarrassed any more that he'd been the one to help you _live_. Like some cripple with her nurse.

He brought water around midday. From the roof, he said. He'd let it sit in the sun. Why'd he do that, you asked him. At that point he'd looked at you like you were just a little daft, and then showed you soap and sponge.

Oh. He was a very diligent nurse.

At least he didn't need to help you _eat_ , that you managed on your own.

In the evening he came back with a shirt. It was way too big, made for a man his size maybe, but it was purple and soft and almost smelled fresh. You could definitely live with that.

"Arms up," Crane ordered while he knelt in front of you, and you did as told. He draped the shirt over your head, guided your hands through the sleeves, and pulled it downwards slowly. Tenderly almost. Your ears caught in the collar anyway and you let out a muffled whine, since even your ears were scraped and bruised. When your eyes came up over the edge of the shirt, Crane was looking at you ruefully, his lips curling into the shadow of his beard.

"Sorry," he said. He looked very agreeable then, you thought. In a rugged sort of way.

 **4..**

 **I** t took until day four of him to show up with a pair of pants. They didn't fit, even when he tried to help you snap the wide rubber band over your hip. You smirked as you witnessed the futile struggle from where you were lying with your elbows propped up on the pile of pillows. His arms were all over the place, his brows furrowed in concentration, and his head seemed a little darker than it probably should be. Was he blushing?

Then he gave up, looked up at you with some word on his lips, but just squeezed his lips together instead and stared at you.

Did you have something on your nose?

"What?" You asked.

"Nothing," he mumbled, and then there was that smile again, a little more bashful this time around. "Not seen you smile before, is all."

And now it was you who turned an embarrassing shade of pink because for some reason or the other you hadn't realised you had a man hunkered over your midriff, one of his hands between your legs, the other resting by your hip.

 **5..**

 **D** ay five brought a _fitting_ pair of pants, and you realised why when he helped you to your feet and told you it was time to move.

 **6..**

 **Y** ou spent day six on your own. The new place he'd picked for you wasn't as spacious as the last one. It had only two rooms, for one. A bathroom and a wide open living area that served as kitchen, bedroom and lounge. It came with a working CD player though, and the first thing you did when you realised the power worked, was to chase the depressing silence from your new compact home. Whoever had lived here, had had a decent taste in music at least, although otherwise they'd lived a fairly frugal life with very little _stuff_ of interest stashed away in drawers and boxes.

Crane had stocked the kitchen with food before he'd brought you here, had piled a few bulgy bottles of water into a corner, too. The windows were boarded up, though he'd left the top rung open on each, allowing light in and the poor excuse for fresh air if you chose to crack the windows down.

At midday you froze while hobbling clumsily to the kitchen. You braced yourself against a chair and frowned. A thought had occurred to you.

For the first time since you'd woken up you wondered: _Why?_

The food, the water, the secured little hovel... He'd gone through a lot of trouble with all of this, especially considering the state you were in. A man or a woman who couldn't fend for themselves, and was infected to boot, was no good out here. So why? You planned to ask him when you saw him next, but then night fell and Crane didn't show.

Darkness peered in through the gaps in the windows. Worried that even the low keyed music might carry out there and attract attention, you turned it down, inviting the silence back in and along with it solitude. Then you shut off the lights, reduced them to two stubby candles on the kitchen table, and sat by the flickering flames to watch the wax melt. Another hour rolled by, and still the door stood closed.

You blew out one candle, picked up the other, and wobbled towards your bed. An _actual_ bed, with a proper, thick mattress and a wide, comfortable pillow. Crossing the room hurt. You'd been lucky not to break anything in the fall, but you'd sprained an ankle. Sprained a lot, judging by how your bones let you know they hated you. It made even just a few steps excruciatingly painful at times.

What was that ugly squeeze there in your chest? You sat on the bed, placed the candle on the shelf by your head. Worry? Was that it? Were you worried about him? You licked your fingers and pinched out the dancing flame. Or were you worried about yourself? That he'd stop showing? What if that was it? What if him setting up the place for you had been his last friendly gesture before he left you to your own devices?

Could he do that? Would he do that?

Your heart felt heavy as you tucked your legs under the blanket and dug your head into the pillow.

 **H** alf an eternity later the door opened. A raggedly breathing Crane stumbled inside.

At first you wanted to sit up quickly, ask him where he'd been, if he was okay. But there wasn't going to be anything quick about you for a long time coming. So instead you decided to lay there quietly and squinted through the dark. He didn't need to know you'd been worrying, or worse, that you hadn't been able to sleep because of it.

Crane didn't bother flicking on the lights. Didn't bother doing much at all, just stood by the door for a while before you heard his feet carrying him through the room. A water bottle opened. He took a few greedy gulps. Then his feet shuffled again. Something fell over and he staggered.

"Fuck—" he cursed quietly and then silence again.

Then your mattress moved. You held your breath, closed your eyes. The mattress tilted again, and you felt your body rolling into the dip, your midriff connecting with Crane sitting next to you.

A warm hand cupped your shoulder. Then it lifted, and a feathery touch of fingers trailed along your side. The tips of his fingers felt like pinpricks of heat against your skin, and when they reached the blanket bunched up against your hip they froze, hovering just at the edge of driving your heart up your throat. One of them tapped a gentle rhythm you couldn't identify, like he'd taken to drumming out a song on your skin.

Crane sighed. He pulled the blanket up to your shoulder and got up.

You fell asleep a little while later, just after he passed out on the couch.

 **7..**

 **A** hypo of Antizin was lying on the table next to your food on day seven. Crane stayed away, and didn't return all night.

 **8..**

 **D** ay eight brought books at midday, and a bleeding Crane in the afternoon. You helped him clean the wound on his scalp, and watched him patch himself up in front of a mirror, threading a needle through his own skin.

You chewed on your bottom lip as you observed the bloody routine, questions upon questions piling up on the tip of your tongue.

Then you asked him why he was doing this, and it took you three tries before he caught on to what you meant.

"You getting hurt was my fault. It's the least I can do."

 **9..**

 **B** y day nine you could almost walk fine again, but you still didn't dare venturing outside. You read two books, and waited for Crane to come back after he'd left at the break of dawn.

He didn't show all night this time either.

 **10..**

 **O** n day ten you woke to him sneaking out of the bathroom, a towel draped over his bare shoulders and a weary slouch in his step. He stood a little straighter when he noticed you looking, and then cracked an almost mischievous grin.

"Seeing something you like?"

Of course. You'd already stared at him plenty back in the minaret tower. Though he'd turned around then and the light had been bad, while now all you could think of was that he wasn't being fair standing there facing you.

You swallowed, flopped back onto your back and wished you could just pull the covers over your head without making yourself look childish.

Then the radio he carried around all the time buzzed, and he went to fetch it. The one sided conversation you caught seemed damn important, and before you could even stop feeling embarrassed, Crane had dressed himself and was back out the door.

Doing whatever it was he did. You'd never asked. Maybe you should?

He came back just as night fell this time. Weary again, shoulders drooping. When he stepped through the door you got up from where you'd been sitting by the kitchen table, busying yourself with reading yet another book. Defiantly not watching the door. No. That would have been terrible.

His eyes cut to you as you approached him, and he looked a little startled. He held the radio in one hand, like he'd been talking to someone until he'd come through the door, and when you presented him with a bottle of water he quickly tossed it onto the couch.

A curious gaze swept you up and down. It rested briefly on the bottle and he licked his lips, something you wished you hadn't noticed. Especially not when he looked back up, catching your eyes with his and holding them there for a little longer than altogether polite.

"Thanks."

His voice sounded rough around the edges, weary just like he looked. He grabbed the water, took one gulp— and then another and then another, like he'd just realised he was thirsty, and emptied the whole thing in one go.

You furrowed your brows at him when he flung the empty bottle after the radio, and he gave you another one of those rueful smiles that you couldn't really place. As if he thought he'd done something wrong.

Or was about to.

His breathing slowed. The smile fell away.

You felt the gentle tug against your sleeve as he hooked a finger into it, and then the tender touch of his hand against your neck. His thumb flicked against your hairline. It pushed down gently, kneading into your stiff muscles. The touch knocked your thoughts askew and you forgot if you'd wanted to say something when he'd come in. _Welcome back_ maybe?

He guided you forward, and while you were still trying to figure out what you'd really wanted to say, he landed a gentle kiss on the crown of your head.

Never-mind. Whatever you'd have wanted to say couldn't have been important.

He lingered up there, his breath warm against your scalp. You tried not to breathe. Tried not to move, worried that if you did, he'd realise what he was doing and decide it was a bad idea. For a while you counted every pull of air, watched his chest rise and fall slowly, and his adam's apple bob up and down when he swallowed down a thought or two. You let your eyes drop a little further, past the dirty, sweaty collar of his v-necked shirt and onto the splash of colour on the otherwise black fabric. He'd tugged it into his jeans, and you remembered how damn flat his stomach was under there. Your fingers twitched with a sudden urge to reach out, but you settled to take a slow breath instead, pulling in a nosefull of _him._

He smelled nice. Sweat. Dirt. Earthy and unbound, a little intoxicating from where you stood with your eyelids suddenly heavy. Your let them fall shut.

Every stroke of his thumb worked the tension from your knotted muscles. When had you gotten so stiff? You exhaled slowly.

Your sigh brought a pause, and you cursed yourself for having interrupted him. The hand on your neck squeezed gently and his thumb hooked just below your ear. He tilted your head up. Not by much, but just enough to give himself room to land a light kiss on your brow. This one barely connected. It didn't last either, not like the last one. Your nerves barely had time to fire with the touch of his lips against your skin, and then he withdrew and looked at you with his brow pinched and his eyes flicking up and down and left and right as if they were looking for something.

But then it appeared Crane had already decided that day ten was the day he'd kiss you, and no amount of uncertainty would stand in the way.

His hand slipped forward, his thumb pushed up against your chin, and you found out he had soft lips and warm lips, and they liked playing catch with yours.

First kisses, you'd always thought, were meant to come with a fanfare of sorts. This one didn't. Not really. Your heart drummed enthusiastically. Your knees felt _off_. But the world didn't fall away and no one set of fireworks around you, and when he broke the kiss everything was still where it had been a moment before.

After that he sat with you at the kitchen table. He asked you what you'd been reading. You told him and he listened while he ate, wolfing down his food like a starved animal. And just like that things felt very normal. As if the darkness that fell around your safe house meant nothing, and the Quarantine was just a bad dream.

That night he slept in your bed. He pulled you in close, draped an arm over you, and then promptly fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 **11..**

 **D** ay eleven you woke to an empty bed.

 **12..**

 **D** ay twelve he still hadn't come back.

 **13..**

 **D** ay thirteen you hated yourself for crying when night fell.

 **14..**

 **D** ay fourteen you went to look for him, but your ankle gave way and you barely managed to make your way back _home_ alive.

 **15..**

 **D** ay fifteen he came back. And he was angry.


	6. Chapter 6

_Definitely_

* * *

 **C** rane didn't tell you why he was seething, why he sat with his shoulders hunched by the kitchen table, staring at the slice of blue skies visible through the gap he'd left when he'd boarded the place up. He'd not even said _Hello_ , just looked at you with a deep seated scowl before he'd settled himself by the table. He'd also looked a little guilty, you'd thought.

Guilty about what?

What he'd definitely not done was walk up to you and kiss you, and you told yourself that was okay. It was definitely not something you'd expected, let alone looked forward to ever since he'd vanished the past five days.

Yeah. Right. You're not a very good liar, are you?

You wandered over to the table and sat down across of him. He clutched a yellow satellite phone in his right hand. That was new. Not literally; the thing looked all sorts of beaten up, with a cracked screen and the buttons worn and fading, but you'd not seen him with it before. The radio, that was old news, and he still carried that too, neatly holstered on his hip.

You sat quietly for a while and tried to look at your hands rather than stare at him, but that didn't work out for very long. So eventually you lifted your eyes. Whatever he'd been up to, it made him look worse for wear. You frowned. Was that blood just below his left shoulder? A dot of red blossomed on the dirty light purple shirt.

"You're bleeding," you told him, echoing his own words so many days ago. Half an eternity at this point, far as you were concerned.

Crane's light brown eyes cut to you. "Yeah. Nothing new there." His voice sounded a little worn. Like he'd been shouting. A lot.

"Do you want me to take a look?" After all, you'd learned quite a bit from watching him clean and treat your wounds. It was the least you could do.

"It's fine," Crane said. But he'd lost some of his frown and was looking at you with something gentle budding behind the solemn glance.

You licked your lips, uncertain if that meant you should just leave him be. His eyes darted to your mouth and he blinked. Again his scowl took a hit.

You made up your mind, pushed back your chair, and stepped around the table to him. He tracked your movements with his left brow quirked curiously and sat up straight when you reached him.

With courage that you hadn't realised you had— and your heart beating a little too fast for your own liking -you stepped behind his chair, grabbed the sides of his shirt, and gave it a hesitating tug. How did one do that again? Were you supposed to just drag it right up, or hitch it skywards slowly? Your fingers twitched and your hands trembled and a lovely jitter wormed its way into your stomach.

"Need help?"

Your teeth clicked together when he grabbed your hands and yanked them and his shirt right over his head.

You stared at the shirt in your hands, and then you felt something warm and solid knock into your chest. You turned your eyes down. Crane looked up at you, the back of his head resting on the mounds of your breasts.

There really wasn't much left of the scowl now, in fact you could see a hint of that rueful little smile again. Not altogether prominent, but getting there.

Your neck and cheek and ears lit themselves on fire, but you tried to hold his heavy stare anyway.

"Thank-you," you mumbled.

"Huh?" He tilted his head. Slightly. Your toes curled. "What for?"

Did he really have to do that? You swallowed and bit down on the tip of your tongue to keep yourself distracted from the warmth coiling in your abdomen.

"For coming back," you clarified while you rallied your courage and tried to get a look over his shoulder at the wound you'd expected there. It was bandaged up, with a patch of red where blood had soaked through. So he'd gotten himself fixed up already. Good. Never mind that you felt a little useless now. And just a smidgen of stupid. You let your left hand drop to the white gauze fixed to him with medical tape, and rested your right atop his shoulder.

Your fingers traced the bandage before skipping to his skin, and only once you'd traced a careful line over the ridge of his shoulder did you notice he'd closed his eyes. And that he'd grabbed his shirt from your right hand and dragged it onto his lap.

You placed your palms against the stiff muscle stretching from his neck down across his shoulders. He pulled in a lungful of air and tilted his head again. You thought that was not fair, how he'd made himself comfortable between your breasts like it was the most natural thing to do. Then he exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders against your hands. Was he trying to give you a hint? You felt the muscle knot and pull against your palm, stretched taut beneath his warm, soft skin. That was one tense man, you thought, and your fingers agreed as they slid forward and down. Your thumb barely managed to push down into the tight mess, but you tried anyway, and after a minute of working along the slope of his shoulders you seemed to be making some sort of progress.

He let out a grunt once in awhile, in-between his slow, steady breathing, but he kept his eyes closed and didn't seem to mind as you kneaded your way down along his spine.

When you couldn't reach any further down without taking a step back, you did so only reluctantly. His head tilted into his neck when the support of your chest wandered away and Crane cracked his eyes open to glance at you. There. That smile again, laced with a bit of disappointment. He tilted his chin forward, and you missed the warmth.

But you weren't done yet, and you were beginning to think he was enjoying the attention to his sore muscles.

They were pulled together in tense cords wherever you touched him. He was also still very bruised, and you remembered what he'd looked like when you'd seen him fifteen days ago inside the minaret tower. When you'd thought he'd rolled over a peacock. He seemed a little less colourful now, but you still tried to avoid the dark patches of lesions under his skin, lifted the pressure when you reached them and slid your palms gently along the swollen skin.

You were getting fairly close to the rim of his jeans as the moments ticked by, so you worked your way back up, until your fingers once again curled against the base of his neck.

He'd not moved for a while, and while you looked at the crown of his head you wondered if he'd fallen asleep. You didn't know if that'd have been a compliment or an insult.

But Crane was still very much awake. When you'd stopped your woeful attempt at a massage and had run out of ideas, he went ahead pushed his chair back and got to his feet. You watched him move about and remembered with a sudden jolt that you'd taken his shirt off. That detail had slipped your mind while you'd been so focused on the technicalities of what to do with his muscles.

It was difficult not to notice now though. Even more so when he grabbed your hand and turned you around with him, moving you up against the table while he enclosed you in a cage made of a pair of arms.

Crane stared down at you, the rueful smile long gone, replaced by something that suffocated your thoughts. His hand hitched up, slid underneath your shirt.

He'd touched you before. Had seen you with nothing but your failing dignity dressing you, and he'd been a stoic gentleman through the whole ordeal. Not once had you noticed his eyes wandering or his hands going places they didn't have to be at. He'd been gentle then, too. Tender.

This was different.

Same set of hands. Same, calloused fingers pressing into your skin. Same man attached to them, but with longing written across his features rather than concern. A constrained, tied up longing and he was just as much fighting it as he was letting it dictate his next move. Crane fastened his grip around your hip, and with one effortless pull he lifted you off your feet and sat you down on the table.

You leaned away from him at first, away from the wall of man that had built himself up in front of you. He didn't come after you, even took a slow shuffling step back. Not out of reach, no. He kept his hands on your hips and his eyes on you. Waiting. Thinking. Over-thinking. Some painful, hungry thing churned behind his eyes. Yes. No. Maybe.

Maybe?

You must have given him some signal, some wordless _come hither_ of sorts, because his thighs bumped into the table and he moved up. A hand slipped out from under your shirt and he placed his fingers against the small of your back. They started trekking their way upwards along your spine, tapping out another one of those curious rhythms that you couldn't place.. Though this one came across a bit demanding with a lot of expectation wrapped into it, and you felt your body deciding to make the best of it. Yes. No. Maybe? You arched your back into the touch, and with every tap he pulled you up a little more. God, couldn't he stop looking at you at least? You felt squashed on the spot, reduced to a warm little puddle that wanted to ooze off the table and drip through a crack somewhere.

You shivered. Your arms relaxed when his fingers finally tickled up your hairline and he lifted you close enough to fit his lips on yours.

Maybe. No. Yes. Your thoughts went on the fritz, senses crowded by him and leaving no room for reason. His scent in each pull of air. His hands, exploring everything they'd come across before with newfound curiosity. Every flick of his thumbs. Each finger dragging across your skin. His lips. Warm. Greedy. The teasing tip of his tongue darting in and out, like it couldn't make up his mind. A graze of teeth. A shy rumble somewhere in front of you.

Then he abandoned the kiss, let his mouth dip to your neck and you heard his breath hitch desperately in his throat.

One hand roamed along your hip, down your thigh. It curled into your knee. Tightened. Pulled. You were snapped forward, slid across the table. Your pelvis knocked into his. Heat lanced straight through you, fierce and to the point. Maybe. No. Yes. Maybe.

 _No_.

Your eyes fluttered opened— when had you closed them again? —and every muscle in you tensed with a sudden need for restraint. The fingers threading through his hair— when had _they_ gotten there? —tightened. Your legs, looped around his hip— _'Oh.'_ —squeezed a little.

You held your breath, snuck your free hand between the two of you, and placed it firmly against his chest.

He froze.

And then the both of you almost jumped out of your respective skins when the radio strapped to his belt came alive with a burst of static.

His hand at the back of your head fell away and Crane jerked up like a spooked meerkat. A meerkat with a pained expression plastered over his face, all confusion and desperation and a decent serving of shame. The shame brought a sheepish little grin to his lips when he looked at you, but then the grin faded when a woman's voice echoed from the radio.

"Crane?"

He closed his eyes. His jaw flexed. _"What-the-fucking-hell-now…"_ he whispered. It took him a moment before he lifted the radio free and clicked it on.

"Yeah— yeah— What's up, Troy?"

Troy? You'd heard that name before. She ran the Embers. He knew the Embers? You wiggled a little as you sat there with your legs still left and right of his hips. In response his fingers curled into your shirt, like he was trying to say _Please don't go anywhere_ , while you heard the woman on the radio tell him that they seemed to have a bit of a situation and they'd really appreciate if he could come back. Now.

Crane's eyes cut up at you, and then took a hike down the length of you until they stopped right where he'd bumped his pelvis into yours.

"Yeah. Me too. Sort of," he told the radio and his lips curled into a lopsided smirk.

A rowdy giggle made it halfway up your throat before he planted a finger on your lips and winked at you. Your giggle turned to a desperate wheezing chortle. Positively mortified you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to wait it all out. All of it. The confusion, the maniac laughter wanting out, and that traitorous heat in your stomach.

This was bizarre. You'd just almost gotten yourself nailed on a kitchen table by the man you'd tried to kill a little more than two weeks ago. Kill. You. _You_ had tried to kill someone, and now he was—

"Okay, I'll be there in—" Leaving? Your eyes opened and you frowned at him as he seemed to think something over. "— half an hour."

No. He couldn't leave again. Not after he'd been gone for so long, had you worried sick and lonely. Whatever manic laughter had wanted out a moment earlier quickly died a bloody death as it fell victim to a spell of panic.

Crane clicked off the radio.

"How's your ankle?" He took a slow step away from the table. From you.

You tried to smile and sat up, tried to follow the warmth he'd just taken away from you. "Much better."

"Great." He placed a hand against your arm. His fingers found your hand, interlaced themselves with yours. "Want to come with me?"

All the urgency was gone when he pulled you to your feet and invited you into his life, and there really wasn't anything else to say but _Yes,_ damned be the No and the Maybe

Crane let go of your hand, grabbed his shirt, and pulled it back over his head. Then he turned away from you, cleared his throat, adjusted his trousers and made for the door.

* * *

 **T** roy and Savvy were not what you'd imagined. Then again you didn't really know what you'd expected. Not the scarred face on Troy, for certain, or the youthful Savvy with his jacket so tight you thought it'd pop any moment.

Crane introduced you to their smiling faces, which showed none of the wariness you'd come to assume from the people of the Quarantine. They didn't berate you that you'd tried to kill their friend either, but then again you guessed he'd left that detail out.

Then Crane and Troy wandered off, and you stood fidgeting nervously while Savvy showed you all the electronic gadgets he'd collected in the pit he called his _base of operations_. Like it was some genius contraption. And it probably was, considering the general state of Harran after the outbreak.

He'd just started boasting about some sort of transmission booster he'd fixed up which had saved all of Harran (your eyebrows knitted skeptically at that claim), when Crane and Troy wandered back into sight. He looked quite grim. She just looked all business and no play.

Crane stopped by your side. He dropped a heavy hand your shoulder. Squeezed.

"Look after her for me?" The question was directed at Troy, whose stern features softened with a knowing little smile. You knew you were likely turning all shades of pink, but there wasn't a damn thing you could do to stop the heat from creeping up your neck.

"You've got it, Crane. Good luck," she reassured him and just like that he was off.

The first thing you learned about the man who'd killed Owen that evening, was that his first name was Kyle. It had never come up. Next you heard about the Ministry of Defence having wanted to wipe Harran off the map. And how he'd used Savvy's genius piece of tech to stop that. Him. Crane. Kyle. That man you'd tried to kill.

You'd almost choked on a piece of pickled carrot at that point, and had started blatantly gaping between Troy and Savvy as they kept talking.

They told you that he'd come here from the slums, chasing after documents meant to help create a cure for the virus. A what? A cure? Seriously? They ought to have been joking. They told you about Rais, what the lunatic had done to him. What Crane had done to _Rais_ , who now lay dead at the bottom of his skyscraper since two days past

They also told you about how Crane had a chance to get out. And chose not to. Just like that the anger made sense. And just like that you wanted nothing more than to have them stop talking, because you realised just what you'd done. Or tried to do, and failed.

You felt sick.

You'd tried to kill a hero.

"I'm tired," you lied to Troy and Savvy then and you didn't like the look Troy gave you. The one that said she read a little too much between the lines, or between your panicked little glances.

She showed you across the construction platform connecting the twin minaret towers and into the unfinished one with half its top still missing. Your stomach flipped uncomfortably and you felt miserable as you decided the universe had decided to wag its finger at you and chide you for the shit you'd tried to pull. The memory dancing between your ears, of you having a gun pointed at Crane, ready to shoot him dead, felt so vivid you feared you were projecting it out into the open for everyone to see. For Troy to see in particular, who stayed with you as she helped you set up. She watched you with attentive, dark eyes, but she was still smiling at least, as if everything was perfectly fine.

It wasn't though. She wished you a good night and left you to your thoughts. There were way too many of those, you decided. You slipped out of your shirt and trousers and curled into a miserable little ball inside the bedroll thrown atop a thick mattress.

By the time you'd fallen asleep, you'd convinced yourself that you were a monster.

* * *

 **Y** ou bolted down the hallway, the avalanche right behind you. It tumbled over itself, hooves and paws and airplanes and the titter of someone you'd long forgotten. A something got your legs and you fell, diving right into the snow. Your cheeks burnt with the cold and your nose stung with pain.

Your eyes snapped open. The cold floor was pressing against your cheeks and your nose smarted. Warmth cupped around your shoulder, and then around your torso, and you were lifted backwards into a well of heat.

Sluggish as they were, it took your thoughts a moment to catch up with the whole business of being awake, and to realise you'd fallen off the mattress. Or had been pushed off it, entirely by accident you guessed, considering the quiet mutter of "Sorry—Sorry—" whispering against your ear.

You wiggled inside the confines of the arms wrapped around you, until you managed to turn yourself onto your back and look up at Crane's silhouette hovering in the dark by your side. You couldn't see a damn thing.

"You're a sheet hogger," his shadow told you. Grinning.

You weren't. Were you? And why was he grinning, he ought to have been pissed at you after what you'd done.

An uncomfortable lump formed in your throat. No way. You weren't about to start crying. Not here. Not in front of him. You sniffed, clenched your jaw and tried to sink into the mattress, out of sight and out of existence.

"Hey— what's wrong?" The grin was gone, and now his shadow was all concern and worry. It came closer too, a shoulder towering right above you and an arm somewhere over your head.

"I'm sorry," you blurted. "For trying to kill you. I had no idea."

The shadow froze. Held his breath. "No idea about what?"

You tried to find his eyes up there somewhere, found the faint glint of them above you and tried to hold them through the otherwise perfect darkness.

"That you… that you were one of the good guys." _'Oh wow—',_ you thought. "I mean, the thing with Rais. And the Ministry. I had no idea," you added quickly, as if that made it any better.

Crane's shadow twitched above you. He exhaled sharply, his warm breath tickling against your forehead.

It took you a moment to realise he was chuckling.

"Huh." He sounded awfully amused. "In that case you're all forgiven."

The words didn't make any sense to you. He couldn't just go and do that, could he? Forget what you'd done, forgive you just like that? You wanted to tell him he was being stupid for not understanding the gravity of the situation, but then gravity stopped making much sense too, because suddenly your down was up and your up was down and you'd been pulled atop of him.

There were hands on your hip. Then there were hands on your rump. And a moment later one of them hooked itself into your right knee and guided you to lay snugly against his leg. All the guilt and misery that had been kicking around in your head exited the stage. They fled the sensation of his skin on yours, dove for cover when he coaxed your cheek to rest against his chest and folded you up in his arms. The coarse shadow of hair tickled your nose and your lips. His heart drummed against your ear. You remembered the rhythm. The _tha-thump-tha-thump-thump_. A little slower than the night you'd fallen , but not by much. Still very much worked up.

And very much alive.

You raised your hands, wrapped them around him. Held on tight.

"Sooo- where were we?" He asked as he rolled his hip to make himself more comfortable. Your thoughts caught themselves on the feel of the only piece of clothing he still wore. You bit back a grin. Was it red hearts on white today, too? Like back then, that first night when you'd met him, when all you'd known about him was that he'd killed Owen and went by the name of Crane?

Maybe you should try find out.

Yes. Definitely. You really ought to.

* * *

 **Taffer Notes:** And here we are. I hope you decided the ride and the show and the tumble and whatnot, and that my attempt at wrapping this up emotionally rather than physically wasn't all too disappointing. Besides, how am I supposed to know how and if you decide to figure out if Crane's wearing his heart boxers again?!


End file.
